


Let the Right One In

by MoragMacPherson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comment Fic, Episode: s06e22 The Man Who Knew Too Much, M/M, Power Play, Self-cest, Violence, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoragMacPherson/pseuds/MoragMacPherson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="http://moragmacpherson.dreamwidth.org/85726.html">Self-Cest Comment Fic Meme</a>
</p>
<p> prompt: "Robosam is in Sam's brain hunting down the other Sams when he meets the one with yellow eyes. BoyKing Sammy pins him with his powers, and discovers they both like it more than they expected. Maybe Robosam breaks free by mixing exorcisms with dirty talk, maybe BoyKing Sam just loses control when the sex happens, but this is how Robosam finds out that fucking is just effective for getting rid of other Sams as killing... and more fun, too."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Right One In

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Callowyn, who's too good of a beta to ever just "take a quick look at this" and who suggested the second person POV, which I usually find anathema, but she made a believer of me.

Meg is the first Sam who tries to kill you after the walls come tumbling down. She’s fast and she’s vicious, but she doesn't seem to realize that you're a much better hunter than your milk-sop soul. It's no small satisfaction to stick your memory of the Colt under her version of your chin and pull the trigger.  
  
You're the only one in here whose only home is this body, who doesn't think of it as a vessel— you _are_ the vessel, the Sam of nerves and bones and muscles and organs. You remember killing Steve Wandell and wiping his blood on your shirt. You remember the feel of buckshot shattering your rib cage, the feeling of a knife slicing through your spine, a fall that never ended until you were standing in the street outside Lisa Braeden’s house watching a man you no longer cared about. You are well within your rights to evict the vestiges of possession that the idiot soul has let inside over the years. You can remember every intruder because you're the one who's always here, feeling them tug your limbs around like a puppet.  
  
You know nothing of Heaven or Hell. But why should you care? The soul is the one who might end up there. The one who remembers the Cage can keep the memories as far as you’re concerned. That Sam, at least, poses no threat to you, busy staring at nothing from the floor of his little candlelit hovel. Besides, the way his skin shifts, reflecting the different tortures he's gone through, is really fucking gross.  
  
The others, though...  
  
Gary's almost too easy, but he had been a moron both within and without your body. You don't think the kid's even figured out whose appearance he's taken, much less whose mind he's trapped in, when you cut his throat. Sam Wesson is a little trickier—not quite as oblivious, and he can swing a crowbar with the best of them. If this was your real body, you'd have bruises. But Wesson's not a real hunter, not a killer. You are.  
  
By your count, you've only got two left to go: Lucifer and that miserable fuck-wit soul. You're saving the soul for last. You want to savor that kill. But you're also not entirely sure how to kill Lucifer, who is almost as good at navigating the grapefruit as you are, and even in this brain has powers beyond yours.  
  
You're stalking the unforgivably oblivious soul, trying to come up with a solution to the Lucifer problem, when an invisible force shoves you up against the wet brick wall from the alley where you watched the vampire turn Dean. "Lucifer," you call out. "I'm willing to negotiate a deal. Show you how to make this body move the way it's meant to." Control is what you really want, but survival is still your number one priority.  
  
But the Sam that emerges from the shadows doesn't wear Lucifer's stilted smile. He has yellow eyes. You frown. "Azazel? But he never—"  
  
"I'm not Azazel, Sam," he says. "You know who I am. After all, I've been here almost as long as you have."  
  
You feel your eyes go wide, habit feigning the emotion you lack. "The demon blood. You're the one—"  
  
"They call me the Boy King," he says, coming closer. "I was going to rule the world." He looks your body up and down with a hungry gleam in his eyes. You can work with that gleam.  
  
"The soul fucked it up for you too, didn’t he?" you say. "This body would be better off without him. Personally, I think it's a little gawky, but it has its perks."  
  
The Boy King runs his thumb over the exposed flesh of your neck, mimicking the way you killed Gary. "Such as?"  
  
You leer as best you can while still pressed up against the wall. "It’s a fucking fantastic lay."  
  
The Boy King raises one eyebrow, all arrogance, but you can see him calculating risks behind those unearthly yellow eyes. "We both know you could kill me with a thought," you add. "But wouldn’t you rather take what you want?" You let your eyes fall to the arousal you can see tenting his jeans, same as yours. You admit that, even in his place, curiosity might move you to spare him.  
  
The Boy King hums. "You have done me a favor by taking care of the others. And I reward those who help me." His smile is beatific, baring teeth a little too sharp. The force holding you disappears and your arms drop. "Overstep and I _will_ kill you with a thought."  
  
You nod in acknowledgement and rub at your shoulder, trying to restore feeling to your arms. "There are nicer places we can do this," you say.  
  
The Boy King smirks. "A shame this mind doesn’t remember my throne." He opens a doorway in the alley wall. "Yet."  
  
You go through the door and recognize the house you'd squatted in after Dean died, where you'd drunk yourself into grief-stupid oblivion, first with whiskey and then with the blood Ruby offered so easily. You understand why the Boy King chooses it: this is where he came closest to taking over.  
  
The door closes, then disappears, and then the Boy King is standing in front of you and his predatory smile is very, very close to yours. You fist your hand in his hair— it's cut like you wore it at Stanford, shorter and with bangs, but it's plenty long enough for you to yank his neck back so that you can give him a rough kiss, fucking your tongue deep into his mouth. Yellow eyes fall shut and he moans deep in his throat; you answer with the exact same sound.  
  
It's not difficult to maintain the kiss while you maneuver the Boy King toward the cheap mattress across the room. The fireplace is lit, as you’d kept it that summer, and you remember how even with sweat dripping down your forehead you’d still felt cold. You’re not cold now. The fire flares up as you strip the Boy King of his many-layered shirts, and you smell sulfur.  
  
Shirtless, the Boy King leans to meticulously untie his shoes. You take a moment to appreciate the muscles of his chest and the fact that they’re slightly smaller than yours. Unsurprisingly, no tattoo graces his left pectoral, though you find you’re disappointed nonetheless. It's probably your favorite thing that the soul's ever done for you. The Boy King divests you of your own single t-shirt and leans in to bite his way along your jaw.  
  
"You're a quick study," you say, and hear the beginnings of breathlessness in your voice. As soon as you've both stepped out of your remaining clothes, and before he can get any kind of upper hand, you grab the Boy King by the hips and sit down on the mattress, pulling him down with you. "You remember this too?" you ask, settling the Boy King more securely on your lap. "This room, fucking Ruby so hard she couldn’t stand?" You wrap one hand around both of the identical cocks in your lap, jacking them slow and just this side of painful.  
  
"I'm not Ruby," the Boy King says, digging his nails into your shoulders, but it's sort of half-hearted because he's busy grinding into your hand, each stroke a little smoother and slicker from your mixed pre-come. Already there’s a warm buzz building in the back of your head. Sex feels so much more intense while you're in control of the body— just another reason to insist on the driver’s seat.  
  
"No, Ruby wasn’t quite this big," you say with a sly twist of your hand. "The sasquatch gene is good for something."  
  
“Don’t make Dean’s jokes,” he says, and takes your lower lip between his teeth, rendering the order unnecessary.  
  
With your free hand, you reach for the lube you remember using in this house, because sometimes it was right beside the mattress and you want it to be there now. The tube settles neatly into your hand. You flick it open and squeeze out a handful, sliding your fingers down the cleft of his ass to find his tight little hole. Before the Boy King can object, you shove one finger in.  
  
Demonic power squeezes your throat almost as strongly as the muscles of the Boy King's ass clench around your finger. Lucky for you, the movement makes your fingertip flick against the Boy King's prostate before you're strangled mid-fuck. The pressure drops away as the Boy King gasps and rocks his hips, like he's unable to decide between fucking his cock into your hand or your finger fucking his ass.  
  
"Trust me," you tell him, driving your fingers in deeper, forcing his muscles to yield. "I know all the things we like best." You add another finger and the Boy King snarls. He wraps his long legs around your waist, pulls you into another biting kiss while you stretch his asshole just open enough that he'll get a good burn when he takes your cock.  
  
It doesn't take much urging to make the Boy King lift his hips. You slide your his fingers out of his ass with a wet pop and position your cock against his hole. The Boy King groans in pain and pleasure when you pull him down, and you know exactly how thin the line between the two is. He grinds down, your hand still jacking his dripping dick while he moves up and down on yours, his ass hotter and tighter than anything could be in the real world. You know every inch of the skin under your hands and revel in dragging new scratches into it, marking what belongs to you.  
  
On one particularly hard thrust, the Boy King grabs your hair and yanks your head back, hard. You cry out, pushing deeper into him, and he laughs. "You’re not the only one who knows how we like it. Couldn’t rule Hell if we didn’t like the burn." He undulates his hips on your lap, squeezing your cock with that beautiful grip, and it’s hard to fight against that.  
  
When your hand slows on his cock, the Boy King shakes his head and a hint of demonic power against your throat reminds you to keep it up. His knees squeeze tight on your hips as he works you against his prostate, stopping you from setting the pace. The Boy King is using you like his personal plaything but you don't give a shit.  
  
We're such a fucking needy cockslut, you think, feeling the same pulse of heat that had flooded your body when he held you powerless against the wall. It’s probably the soul’s fault—some residual desire to give up all responsibility or accountability, to be absolved of blame for his own selfish desires—but nonetheless the raw danger of being at the Boy King’s mercy sets your heart beating faster, curling deliciously in all the places real fear has never found you.  
  
You know what it means when the pump of the Boy King's hips gets jerkier, when he makes those breathless gasps in your ear. The invisible hands at your throat go slack. A moment later, your hand is covered in his come, his head slumping forward onto your shoulder. You take the opportunity to thrust into him as viciously as you want, once, twice, and then your cock is twitching and spilling inside his spasming hole. You both moan, identical voices in stereo, and this mirror self has gotta be the best fuck you've ever had because you’ve never had an orgasm that made you white out before.  
  
You're so blissed out that it takes you a moment to realize that the Boy King has disappeared. You flop back against the mattress, confused and giddy. You can _feel_ the demon blood in your veins now, can sense that little thread of power, and you realize you know exactly how to use it. You look over at the fireplace, raise your hand, and the flames surge out to blacken the walls.  
  
You start laughing. Your throat still aches from where he'd squeezed it but you can't stop. You've just fucked the Boy King into submission, in every sense of the word. And you got a fantastic orgasm in the bargain. It's not the first time one of your sex partners has died, but it's certainly the first time one has died during the actual fuck.  
  
When you stop laughing you wave the flames away and wipe yourself off—the Boy King is gone but his jizz lingers— and put your clothes back on. At the last moment, you grab one of the Boy King's button downs to go over your own t-shirt. It feels right. You know exactly how to take care of Lucifer now, and you’re looking forward to round two.  
  
Not for the soul, though. That fucker would probably cry his way through the whole thing anyway. Right now, you're loose, limber and alert— everything that melodramatic moron isn't. It's time to hunt down the soul and get rid of him for good.


End file.
